Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

"The Latin male thing?"

"Old habits die hard-- not that I am anything like a male chauvinist. I am the modern Latin man," he declared. "The truth is. I have to admit to an ulterior motive for asking you to join me for lunch."

"Oh?" I said, starting the car and pulling out of my parking space.

"I can't help being curious about you, your life with your father in particular. I hope you don't mind, but I have read everything he wrote, and I even have a letter he sent me after I wrote to him, asking him about something in one of his books. I thought he had a very clear and accurate view of human behavior. I imagine he was a very calm, well-organized man, not easily shaken or disturbed. Am I right?"

"Yes," I said "My father was that."

"And yet capable of great passion--

compassion. I should say," he corrected.

I nodded.

"Oh, just make a quick left turn here and then take the first right. Yes, that's it on the corner. Don't be discouraged by its outward appearance. This is a book that definitely should not be judged by its cover." he added.

I parked and we entered a very small place. Although it looked clean and well maintained, there were paper tablecloths and even plastic knives and forks, which gave it a truly unpretentious appearance. The menu was on a plain sheet of paper and, according to the heading, was changed daily. Everyone knew Professor Fuentes and greeted him warmly. He introduced me as one of his newest students. We took the table near the front window.

"Why don't you order for me. too?" I asked, seeing that the menu was in Spanish.

"No problem."

He gave the waitress our order, then sat forward, his face resuming an intense expression.

"If I ask anything that is impolite, please, don't hesitate to tell me," he said.

"Okay."

"I bet you will, too," he said with a smile. "Did your father practice any of his theories about human behavior on you?"

If he did, it was so subtle. I didn't realize it," I said. "When I was old enough to understand and appreciate him more. I saw how cleverly and smoothly he used psychology on everyone, especially my adoptive mother.

"Adoptive?"

"Yes. I was adopted." I said.

"Oh." He sat back. "I see. I just assumed..."

I saw how disappointed he was that I was not a blood relation. I considered him for a moment, then decided to be forthcoming.

"However. I am my father's daughter." His eyebrows hoisted.

"Excuse me?"

"My adoptive mother never knew, but I am my father's actual child. After both of them passed on. I learned the truth about my origins, and then visited my real mother and decided to live with her and go to school here."

"Oh. So that's why you told me you were living with your mother and half brother."

"Exactly."

"I am prying, but not as a busybody. I hope you believe that."

"Of course," I said.

The waitress brought us iced teas.

"There is and will always be that age-old debate about the relationship of heredity to behavior. A colleague of mine is developing a thesis that there is a so-called evil gene. Some people turn it into